


Something Went Right

by A_Virtuous_Pyromaniac



Category: Team Fortress 2, Team Fortress Classic
Genre: Aftercare, Begging, Cuddling & Snuggling, Easter, F/M, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, Masturbation, Nipple Play, Period-Typical Sexism, Porn With Plot, Pregnant Sex, Prequel, Roleplay, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Virtuous_Pyromaniac/pseuds/A_Virtuous_Pyromaniac
Summary: A pregnant Classic Pyro retreats to Conagher Ranch. Classic Heavy comes to visit during Easter furlough.A (sort of) prequel toThe Spy Who Burned Me.Now complete





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...wow. This is the first multi-chapter story I’ve done in almost six years. The premise is taken directly from Mister_Stalker and tiny_freakin_head’s _The Spy Who Burned Me_. Classic Pyro gets pregnant, and then goes to Conagher Ranch to have the baby. The continuity between this story and _The Spy Who Burned Me_ isn’t perfect, so I guess it’s technically more of a companion piece or a fan work than a prequel. 
> 
> The story is already finished and will be updating every Thursday between now and May 9th.
> 
> Many thanks to M, who allowed me to rip off her characters and then proofread the results.

**March 25, 1937**

**Maundy Thursday**

Bea was slated to spend another day sitting in the green armchair. A pillow supported her lower back and there were three more stacked on top of the footstool, making it taller. It was important that Bea keep her feet up, Charity said. It would prevent swelling. When Bea had pointed out that her feet were quite swollen anyway, Charity had just patted her shoulder and said, “It’ll help, at least.”

Three-twenty in the afternoon, the clock on the mantel ticked at a glacial pace. Marcus and Fred were due to arrive sometime that evening. That meant four or five more hours in the chair, with only a pulp novel and a cup of chamomile infusion to entertain her. Charity had made the infusion for Bea without being asked. Left it on the coffee table, mug steaming cheerfully atop a cork coaster. If the infusion weren’t chamomile, it would be mint. Or maybe lemon-ginger. Charity would have remembered that Bea took it with two sugars, but even so, Bea didn’t want any. She wanted coffee. Or whiskey, just like she’d taken it with the team. Jameson when the mercs could get it, the local hooch when they couldn’t. Served in a chipped set of classes that Ross had bought from an Okie family, chilled with the last of the ice scraped from the icebox. The terrible presentation was almost the point. They weren’t gentlemen at some private club, they were mercenaries, and they were in it to get completely, thoroughly drunk.

The memory of the whiskey made Bea want to hurl the mug against the wall. The infusions were something for a child or an invalid. They condescended her. Not that Charity could stop Bea from getting her own supplies, of course. That had been a point of contention when Bea first moved in. She’d been her making her personal coffee in the Conaghers’ coffee maker, and Charity had been in the parlor, talking to a neighbor, some woman whose entire body seemed to have been cleaned with liquid starch.

“Now, I’d never give her _drugs_ , not in her condition,” Charity had said. “But bless her heart. Lead a horse to water and all that. Can’t save a lost puppy sometimes.”

The comments had enraged Bea, but somehow, her attitude had softened over the subsequent months. It wasn’t Charity’s fault, exactly. It was simply impossible for them to understand each other; they came from different worlds. Or really, Bea was invading Charity’s world. She hadn’t wanted to invade, but it didn’t matter. She’d come crashing in, unexpected and unplanned. The sort of situation where everybody felt they had no control over things, and everybody was sure to end up resentful. Bea had accepted that.

Papers rustled in the other room, and Bea looked over her shoulder. The door to the dining room was open, and she could see Charity and Dell, sitting at the table. Dell was bent over his homework, Charity, over her account books. Why did she even bother to keep household accounts? Fred had made them richer than sin, so surely she didn’t need to record how much she’d spent on bread and milk? Whatever. Bea didn’t need to understand, anyway. Not her world.

Just then, the baby kicked. Bea clenched her jaw and pressed a hand to her belly. She hated the baby’s moving. Little invader that had forced her to invade the Conaghers. It felt wrong, creepy, unnatural. Parasitic, really. Of course it was; she’d never asked to have another person inside her.

The baby quieted and Bea realized that she was aimlessly staring down at herself. One dumpy little hand, a flowered maternity dress borrowed from Charity, swollen feet, and that enormous gut. Her belly spilled into her lap, resting heavily on her thighs, and she was only seven and a half months along. She didn’t see how she could possibly get any bigger, even if she was small and the baby’s was father was practically a giant.

Enough of that. No point in staring; she knew what she looked like. Bea picked up the pulp. _Hopalong Cassidy_. The pulp didn’t promise to be particularly interesting, but it was either this or one of Dell’s books. Fred and Charity didn’t seem to own anything that wasn’t a western. For the umpteenth time, Bea wished she’d thought to pack some of her own books before making her hurried departure from Teufort. Or anything, really. Her only source of entertainment was things that were already in the Conaghers’ house. She got an occasional letter from Marcus, but they were short, hopelessly vague, and all seemed to the contain the phrase _everything here’s going good._ Privately, Bea suspected that Marcus was deliberately omitting details because he didn’t want her to feel left out. And after all those omissions, the letters managed to be worse than no news at all.

 _Hopalong Cassidy_ had to be the twentieth western Bea had read, not that she’d been counting, and all the stories blended together in her mind, anyway.

_Late in the afternoon towards this town rode Antonio, a Mexican of little courage, much avarice, and a great capacity of hatred. Crafty, filled with cunning of the coyote kind, shifty-eyed, gloomy, taciturn, and scowling, he was well fitted for the part he elected to play. He was absolutely without mercy of conscience, if he had ever known one, it had been pulled out by the roots and its place filled with viciousness. Cold-blooded in his ferocity, easily angered and quick to commit murder if the risks were small, he embraced within the husk of his soul the putrescence of all that was evil._

The baby kicked again. Bea frowned, then stared intently at the pulp for a moment before deciding that the baby was not the reason heat was starting to pool into her abdomen. Damn it. The pregnancy had turned her already-voracious sex drive into something incessant and obnoxious. The stupidest things left her aching and wet, which would have been annoying enough by itself. The fact that she had no easily available partner and that she was feeling far from sexy just made it worse.

Bea put the pulp down and heaved a sigh. Well, if she was already aroused, she might as well enjoy herself. It would be more interesting than anything else that was going on, at any rate. She looked towards the dining room. The aches and pains weren’t so bad that she couldn’t walk, and she could always say that she’d gone to bed for a nap.

Standing was difficult and awkward. Walking was worse. Bea didn’t really walk these days – she waddled, laborious and slow. Her belly pulled her weight too far forward and her breasts jiggled uncomfortably. She’d gone up a cup size or two, overflowing every bra she owned, and she had yet to get new ones. Going out seemed like too much effort.

The climb up the stairs left her panting a little, and it felt so good to collapse on the bed. Not her bed; this was a guest room. Everything was impersonal and generic, from the navy comforter to the framed print of flowers. The only things that suggested Bea had been living here were the zippo on the bedside table and another abundance of pillows. Two under her head, one between her legs, and one to support her belly. She was confined to sleeping on her side these days. Lying on her back just hurt her hips and made it too hard to breathe.

For a moment, Bea just lay there, feeling very heavy and fairly disgusting, and tried to work up the resolve to do something. Best to start small, so she started undoing her dress. It was one of those simple calico dresses with a long row of buttons down the front. The sort that opened right up when it came time to breastfeed. Bea wouldn’t need the convenience of front buttons, but she supposed Charity had. Once the dress was open, she felt her way to her garters and unhooked them from her corset. Charity called the thing a maternity corset but but it never seemed tight enough to count. If one good thing had come from all this, it was that this corset was significantly more comfortable than her regular girdles. Wiggling her knickers past her hips took a bit of effort and grunting, but she managed. Then, with a small, shuddering breath, she reached down around her belly and between her legs. The wires of her bra to dug in annoyingly, but she ignored and it and kept going.

A garden of curls greeted her. Bea hadn’t been able to see her vulva for weeks now, but she could imagine what it looked like. A wild tangle near the lips, the hair growing sparser towards her ass and the inside of her thighs. Close to how she’d looked before she became sexually active and started trimming her pubic hair. Actually, her bush was probably thicker now; her legs and armpits had gotten fuzzier and a line of coarse hairs had sprouted on her belly.

Bea traced her fingers about her labia a few times, pulled up towards her clit, but she gave up before she got there. The hair had reduced her sensitivity somewhat, but the problem seemed like more than that. Things were going nowhere; she could feel it.

She might have stopped if it hadn’t been for her bra. The pinching had gotten worse, so she reached back and unhooked it. The bra sprang loose, suddenly looking very small and inadequate. How had she been stuffing herself into that thing? She really did need to force herself to get some new ones.

With her breasts free, Bea suddenly wanted to get well and truly comfortable. Or at least as comfortable as her body would allow. She sat up, shed the unbuttoned dress, her knickers, corset and bra, and wiggled under the blankets in nothing but her stockings. Once she’d gotten all the pillows back into place, it wasn’t so bad. The skin of her belly was rippled with stretch marks, sore and itchy, but the soft, cool sheets seemed to help. Her breasts squished against each other, and almost automatically, she found herself reaching towards them. She’d loved playing with her breasts, before. Maybe she still did.

She started gently, almost delicately. She was tender and a little achy, but they felt so good in her hands. Heavy and ripe, soft enough to squish between her fingers but not so soft that they had no shape of their own. And she’d gotten so _big_. Her hand wandered around the expanded territory, trying to get a good sense of everything. It took a moment, but she enjoyed that moment. That she was able to explore herself lazily and at length. How did flat-chested women do it? What fun was there if you could take a whole tit your hand at once? Bea hadn’t been able to do that since she was twelve. Marcus could cup her nicely, but his hands were enormous, so that didn’t count. Wait.

Bea pulled the blankets down and gave her breasts a good, long look, trying to tell if they were now too much for Marcus. She’d like to think so, but how could she be sure? She hadn’t seen Marcus and his giant hands for more than four months. Her breasts did look nice, though. They’d always been asymmetrical and hung a bit low under their own weight, but they were plump and full of shape. Her nipples, which had once been small and almost ghostly pale, had expanded and darkened to a deep, cool pink. If only she could have forgotten her belly and just had her breasts like this! There was more to notice than before, and instinctively, she wanted people to notice her. To have someone’s eyes on her. Bea wanted to look into their faces and see hunger there.

Her vagina spat a trickle of moisture just then, and the ache in her pelvis was growing and radiating outwards. Bea probed a bit more forcefully into her tits. There was pain, but it wasn’t so bad. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and started imagining.

It began with the girl from Montreal, the first woman Bea had even been with. They’d both been nineteen, furtive, secretive, stealing moments together in the women’s locker room. Late at night, all the others gone home, and the two of them dabbling with sex in that single-gender and allegedly sexless space. The girl from Montreal had loved Bea’s breasts, which had surprised Bea. It was the 20s, and everyone was pretending their chests were flat as cardboard. Enlisting corselets and binders to make the game seem more real. The world was practically screaming one thing, but the girl from Montreal wasn’t listening.

“They’re just making rules because they can make them,” she’d said, leaning in close to Bea and stroking her hair. “No sense in those rules. None at all. People will always love that rack. It’s just human nature.”

 _Always_ wasn’t quite true, but those words and that girl had made Bea braver, somehow. Shameless, and it hadn’t taken her long to realize that it felt so good to pursue what she wanted without shame. Sure, some of her partners had grumbled and found flaws in her, but most of them realized Bea was simply pursuing life’s pleasures and fell into line. Alex. Amanda. Eugene. That old man who’d insisted on sleeping beneath gossamer mosquito netting. She’d forgotten his name, but he’d been so kind. Marcus. Marcus in particular.

So many good times with Marcus. He’d enjoyed her breasts as much as any of them, but those moments didn’t particularly stand out because everything about her seemed to infatuate him. It had taken a while for her to accept this, because his sincerity made her wonder if she’d somehow missed the joke. Even their bodies seemed to fall into the background of those memories. It hadn’t been so much about what they’d done as about how free they’d felt. Marcus was the one who never gaped at her ideas, even when he’d said that he didn’t want to try them. When his yes meant yes and his no meant no, Bea didn’t have to second-guess herself. Or hold back. Freedom wasn’t about going so recklessly fast you went flying into the ditch; it was about going fast and knowing you wouldn’t. The two of them careening, Marcus by her side like an emergency brake or a safety net. Going anywhere and nowhere at the same time.

She was remembering a specific anywhere now. Detroit, a crumbling disaster of a house that Marcus’s father had left him, as if that would somehow make up for a lifetime of absence. Bars on the windows, three separate deadbolts on the door. The houses to the left and right had been abandoned and burned out; Bea immediately wished she’d had a chance to burn them first.

“Neighborhood even the police won’t go to,” Marcus had reassured her as he unlocked the front door. “Screaming could be audible from the street and nobody would give a fuck.”

 _Nobody giving a fuck_ must have been another gateway to freedom. How could you spend a weekend roleplaying a kidnapping if somebody cared? People who cared were always barging in with wide eyes and pursed lips, muttering about how this sort of thing wasn’t natural, and maybe Bea should see a psychoanalyst? One that specialized in sexual disorders?

A shrink would have a field day with Marcus and Bea, that much was certain. They hadn’t taken any photos during weekend in Detroit, so Bea would have to describe the scene. There had been a kitchen with a cracked linoleum floor, chilly even when the half-busted radiator was cranked all the way up. The sink was also cracked. No cabinets beneath it, just a copper pipe gone green from time, though Marcus was flailing so much that the handcuffs were starting to scrape the green away. They’d only had that one pair of handcuffs, so Bea had to use rope for his ankles. No gag, because how could he beg for mercy-- or just some clothes-- if his tongue was stopped up? And things weren’t half as fun if she couldn’t hear him wail.

The premise of the game was absurd, of course. What kidnapper would release her victim only after she’d been sufficiently pleasured? Then again, plenty of romantic films and novels were just as ridiculous. Either way, it was easier to suspend disbelief if the real point was fun.

Though perhaps there wasn’t that much disbelief to suspend. Marcus was a talented beggar. Breathy, gasping, eyes shining and following her every move. Bea told him there’d be no clothes or warmth until he serviced her, and he threw himself into it with a delightful, pathetic eagerness. No sooner had she come that he was back to begging.

“Just give me a bed sheet. Or even a hat. Please, I’ll do anything you want. Anything. And besides, I’m no good to you dead, you’ll get nothing if I freeze.”

He was peppered with goose bumps by then, the skin gone waxy and red. Bea squatted beside him and patted his head. When she smiled, she was every bit as sincere as he.

“So much whining.” She dropped to a whisper and let her voice turn to sugar. “Silly me, thinking I’d snared a tough one. Are clothes even going to shut you up? I bet not. Bet you’re the type that’s never happy with anything.”

“I’ll be nice. I’ll be quiet. So quiet. Not a peep, I promise.”

She kissed the cold tip of his nose and pressed a finger to his lips. “Absolutely nothing. Not even a whimper.”

Marcus nodded furiously. Bea crossed the room, where Marcus’s clothes lay in a heap on the table. She shook them out, then folded them into a neat little package that would fit in her arms. Her pace was lazy, and Marcus’s jaw seemed to clench more tightly by the second.

“Here you are.” Bea leaned over Marcus. “Got them all nice and neat for you. Aren’t I kind?”

When she was met with more nodding, she reached down towards the handcuffs. Traced her fingers over them, as if thinking. Locked eyes with Marcus, them tossed the clothes on the floor near his bound feet. “There’re your clothes. I’ll let you put ‘em on.”

Marcus wailed. Or maybe it was more of a moan, all wordless disappointment. But he hadn’t even shut his mouth when Bea slapped him across the face.

“What did I just say? Two minutes ago, don’t you fucking listen?” She grabbed him by the hair and gave his head a good yank. Marcus had specifically forgone a couple haircuts to allow her a better grip.

“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help it, I--”

“Oh, can it. You’re boring.” A bruise was already starting to form on his face, and the color delighted her. Marcus bruised easily for such a strong man, and that meant that hitting his face was off-limits unless they were in the middle of a good, long furlough. He could hardly show up on the battlefield with a black eye. Someone might think he’s lost a bar fight, and Marcus wouldn’t stand for that.

“Bea? Bea, sweetheart, are you awake?”

Bea’s eyes flew open and she yanked the blankets up to her earlobes. “Oh. Oh, yes. Just trying to nap.”

Thankfully, Charity just spoke through the door. “Well, Dell and I are going to church. We’ll be back in a couple hours.”

Church? Bea’s mind swam for a moment before she remembered that Easter was four days away. Without any rhythm or progression to her days, there was little point in keeping track of time.

“That, that’s great. Thanks for letting me know.” Her voice cracked, but she hoped it still sounded somewhat sincere. Charity didn’t open the door or even rattle the knob, but Bea didn’t fully relax until Charity’s footsteps had gone down the stairs.

Well, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about Charity and Dell for a while. Imagine getting caught and trying to explain masturbation to them! Charity probably thought it was sinful; she’d be the type to think that. And god knew she and Fred would keep all mention of sex from Dell as long as possible. Righteous southerners doing what they were so certain was best.

A scandalized Charity would never believe that things plunged much deeper than masturbation. Or maybe she would; she might think that deviancy knew no bounds for people like Bea. And she’d never understand that kidnappings and their ilk took a good deal of intimacy and devotion. You had to really trust a person before trying something like that. Trust they’d respect you, and they’d always been looking out for you, present and steady, an emergency brake that kept you on the road.

Bea swallowed. A bad taste had suddenly built up in her mouth, and her righteousness towards Charity wavered a little. She shoved a certain memory away. No, not that. Not now. She was thinking about the kidnapping, and she was going to have the orgasm she needed. Detroit, remember Detroit.

Their game had gone on for about eight hours. Marcus was still tied up on the floor, though she’d given him his clothes and moved him closer to the radiator. She’d still made a show of luxuriating in a fleece bathrobe, though. Who’d have known that a robe could convey dominance just as well as black leather?

But the middle of the next day, Marcus was burned and battered enough to pass for a real kidnapping victim and they were both thoroughly worn out. The hitting and taunting had taken more energy than Bea anticipated, and some part of her just wanted untie Marcus and collapse on the couch for a nap. She’d never do such a thing, of course, so she rubbed at her eyes, then helped him up and wrapped him in a blanket. Sat him down in the house’s only not-terrible armchair while she ran him a hot bath. Washed his back and put ointment on his burns once he was dry. He made a couple small, almost whimpering noises as she worked. She tucked him into bed with extra pillows and a hot water bottle, then snuggled up next to him. Her head barely reached his collarbones and those arms could’ve crushed her. His size seemed to fade into the background when she was beating him or patching him up, but now, it came crashing down on her. How could she have so much responsibility for such a powerful person? She wrapped her arms around as much of him as she could. He was all hard muscles, but she couldn’t help but give him a soft little squeeze. The type meant to reassure. She could hear his heartbeat from this position. Nice and slow, the way an athlete’s heart should be.

At one point, Marcus cleared his throat. When he spoke, he was still rather hoarse. “Do you, ah, think you could make us some coffee?”

Coffee implied Irish coffee, so Bea got out of bed and found the supplies they’d packed. She’d bought Columbian beans, the good stuff. There were two mismatched mugs in the cupboards, and Bea washed them and filled them halfway with whiskey while she waited for the coffee to brew. Marcus took his without any extras, but Bea couldn’t stomach any amount of coffee without copious amounts of cream and sugar.

When she returned to the bedroom, Marcus tried to take his cup with two hands, as if he was trying to draw on its warmth. His hands were so large that they seemed to get in the way of themselves, and Bea couldn’t help but smile at the cuteness of gesture. After some fumbling, Marcus took and sip and made a deep-throated noise of satisfaction.

“I know, right?” Bea settled in between the blankest and drank from her own mug. Irish coffee was a common aftercare thing between them. They didn’t have it every time – often one was too exhausted or nauseous for something so strong – but they had it often enough. It had begun as a joke. They’d been up late one night, playing with ropes and Havana cigars. The team was due to be transferred to a base in Georgia the next day, and Bea made some joke about needing to polish off a bottle of whiskey before they crossed state lines. Even now, five years after the end of federal Prohibition, Georgia remained stubbornly dry.

That one-off had turned into a tradition. Maybe it was because they usually had the supplies on hand. Or maybe it was because Irish coffee didn’t feel as presumptuous as most other cocktails. No specialized glasses, juicing fruit, or shaving ice required. Hot drinks were soothing in a way cold ones could never be, and it was just nice to be a little tipsy while coming down from that orgasmic high.

Tipsiness made the world mellow out. The room would sway a little, just right, just gently enough to lull Bea to sleep. It was a reassuring feeling, and Bea had loved it since she’d taken her first sips of illicit bathtub gin. Her sex life had nearly always been complimented with alcohol. Marijuana too, and she’d once used nutmeg, just to try it. But the best drugs always came in a bottle, with a detailed label that suggested pride and class. Everything would be enamored fun until it wasn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, chapter 2 is up! Bea’s still jerking off in bed and remembering things.

Bea suddenly felt sick. The baby kicked again, so hard that it made her stomach lurch.

“Oh, shut it. Little shit.” When she spoke, the baby could hear her. The doctor had said so. Bea seldom spoke to the baby; silence made it easier to pretend it was a parasite or some kind of tumor. Besides, she probably provided enough ambient conversation for it to hear whatever it needed to. But now, the memories, even ones with aftercare and Irish coffee, were taking her to a dark place. She could only have so much darkness inside her before some small thing came leaking out.

Bea closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against the lids. Forget the coffee, forget booze in general. Go somewhere better, at least for now. Just pick something. Remember Halloween, back in ’31? She forced herself to dredge up a couple details from that party and its aftermath, and made a clumsy grab at her vulva. It was no help, and really, she wasn’t even horny anymore. She sighed and resolved herself to another memory.

There was alcohol in this memory, too. No whiskey, just wine. Cherry wine. That was the way to do it in Michigan, according to the locals. The mercs could have afforded to drink better, but what was the point of springing if you only tasted a third of the night and remembered half of it?

Spy had been sitting by the common room window, posture perfect, sipping on a tall glass of ice water. The rest of the team was pointedly, ambitiously smashed. By eleven, the scout was snoring on the sofa and Fred was staring aimlessly into the fire -- a night of drinking always demanded a good fire, as far as Bea was concerned – and singing softly to himself. _I’ve got no silver and I’ve got no gold, I’m almost naked and it’s done turned out cold_. The other six were in the kitchen, playing Texas hold ‘em, rowdy and hollering. Ross won the pot, and Bea (once she counted her money the next day) would break even.

No battle was scheduled for the next day, but they were supposed to transfer to a new base. The Administrator wanted them up and on the road by nine in the morning, Always an early start, no matter how close or far their destination. Katsu always said this was to prevent them from drinking even harder than they already did, though after a while, his complaints always dissolved into muttering about the rates of liver failure among mercenaries. Higher than average, altogether too high.

Katsu’s muttering had gone silent by the time the game was over. He’d lost the most, and seemed almost ready to pass out at the table. Marcus roused him, and he took two or three precarious steps. Going nowhere, except straight down to the floor. Marcus had gathered the doctor up in his arms and carried him to bed. Katsu would wake up in half-decent shape. Marcus would think to remove his shoes and jacket.

Removing a drunk man’s clothing could be a somewhat lengthy procedure, so Bea had gone ahead and hurried the night forward. Well, she’d just decided to go lie down naked in Marcus’s bed, but she figured that was more or less the same thing. She remembered stealing his extra pillow and propping herself up, while one hand slithered over her stomach and between her legs. The wonderful, warm flush swallowed her up; her nipples were puckered and hardened. Or so she’d assumed. She was so drunk she was seeing double, but it hardly mattered. She held her liquor well, walking steadily and holding a coherent conversation, even if she didn’t remember having done those things. _You’d never know the difference,_ Greg once said admiringly.

When Marcus opened the door and saw her, he just ran a hand over his face.

“Not in the mood?” Bea pursed her lips and pouted, all while allowing her play to continue uninterrupted. “Don’t give me that look! You don’t get it, I want, I need…I’ll blow you one. Make it easy for you.”

Marcus heaved a sigh that was positively Byronesque in its sincerity. “I’m coming, don’t you fret now.” He began to work on his shirt buttons, so deathly slow that Bea had to go over and help with his pants. She got his belt undone, and pulled his boxers down. His cock was soft, and she gave it a little squeeze, suddenly quite irritated by its state. Marcus said it was harder to get it up after drinking. A huge design flaw, really. “Marcus,” she dragged his name out, really whined. “You don’t know how bad I need to get fucked right now. Fucked hard. Just jackhammered.”

“What’s the date? Can’t remember.” Marcus paused over his third button, then moved to pull his shirt over his head. The gesture was lovely; no one could remove a shirt as nicely as Marcus. “Your cycle? Aren’t you close?”

“We’re good, it’s fine, I checked.” This wasn’t a lie. A lie happened with the intent to deceive; she kept careful track of the truth when she lied. No, this was pure hubris. Perhaps she really had convinced herself that she’d checked the little red x’s on her calendar.

The sex was incredible. She blew Marcus, all eager tongue and the tiniest amount of teeth. Got him flat on his back and moaning. Utterly helpless, none of those muscles doing him a lick of good. Sure, it had taken him a while to get his cock up, but now it was good and swollen, leaking just the slightest bit of precum. He must have wanted nothing more than an orgasm, but he knew she’d be upset if he came outside of her. On another day, she might have ordered him to hold back, but she was too eager and impatient tonight. So she’d climbed aboard and ridden him. It wasn’t as forceful as a good pounding, but she could lean forward and pay special attention to her clit. And besides, he gave him a chance to admire the view. She was plump enough to jiggle while she topped, all tits and ass. Her cunt was sort beneath her even softer belly, its shape clearly visible thanks to the neatly trimmed pubic hair.

Marcus came quickly; she came a few seconds later. Both of them were panting and glazed with a little sweat. Exhaustion came for Bea as soon as she’d rolled off Marcus and snuggled against him. He’d peppered her forehead with kisses; she’s fingered his ass a little. All of it was lazy and noncommittal, because they were asleep within minutes. She woke the next morning with his arms around her and a sense that all was right with the world. A pleasant morning made a long van ride easier, but after that, things fell apart quickly.

Her breasts became inexplicably tender in a way they hadn’t been since puberty. She’d tried and failed to laugh it off. Breasts were already strange things with minds of their own. But somehow, deep down, she’d known, even before she missed her period and the morning sickness set in.

Long nights were spent awake and worrying; she was simultaneously on a hair trigger and paralyzed with terror. Godawful nights, with the hours slowly trickling by. Alone despite the body beside her in bed, because she couldn’t bear to voice her fears to anyone. Not even Marcus.

The front door opened. This time, Bea was ready when Charity spoke. “Bea? Are you awake? Let me hear your voice.”

“I’m awake.” This was technically true, even if Bea’s eyes were still closed.

“Okay, good. The men should be here in an hour or so. You might want to get ready. Freshen up a little.”

Bea did not want to freshen up. She wanted to sink into the pillows and dissolve. “Yeah, sure. I hear you.”

“Do you want me to check on you in half an hour or so? Make sure you’re up and moving?”

“No! Not at all, I...yes.” God, she sounded pathetic. But if Charity wasn’t coming back, she wasn’t sure if she really would get up. Bea closed her eyes for five more minutes, but the idea of Charity barging into the room and shaking her awake finally got her up and moving. She straightened the seams on her stockings and stuffed herself back into her underthings. The only clean dress in the closet was a pale yellow that clashed terribly with Bea’s hair and complexion, so she went over to the hamper to find something half-decent. The blue dress didn’t look so bad. No obvious wrinkles and it didn’t seem to smell. Good enough. Bea pulled it on and buttoned it over her belly. There was no way she going to look good, so why bother with the little details?

The light in the upstairs WC was dim and weak. No good for makeup, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask Charity if she could use her vanity. So Bea just leaned in close to the mirror and tried her best. Modern makeup required a find hand. Seven or eight years ago, it hadn’t taken as much finesse. Kohl around the eyes and a lipstick pout, all of it artificial and obvious. What was the point of wearing makeup if nobody could tell? Bea would never understand what the magazines were going for these days. Rouge that could be mistaken for a sunburn and those puny little eyeliner pencils. No more red-red lipstick either, just dull mauves that reminded her of raw meat.

Bea had half a mind to do her makeup the old way, the thirties be damned! But a flapper’s makeup didn’t suit any woman anymore, let alone a pregnant one. Her former garishness would’ve made her look clueless. Pathetic. Like she was hellbent on pretending to be the thing she was before. Steak-colored lips and gray eyeliner pencil it was. She hadn’t had much practice since becoming a mercenary, but makeup had always come easily to her. Once you learned to stop twitching and evaluate your work with an objective eye, almost nothing was difficult. A lot of womanhood was like that, really. Get instruction for movies or magazines, and copy. The quicker Bea was able to copy, the more time she had for the important parts of life.

At least doing her hair was easier than doing her makeup. Waves would never go out of style and she could have used her curling iron in her sleep. The smell of hair and the heat on the back of her neck were good an familiar; it was almost enough to cheer her up as she unplugged the iron and looked in the mirror. She didn’t look terrible, just faded. As if these past few months had bleached the color and vitality right out of her. Well, she’d wanted to dissolve a few minutes earlier. She’d almost gotten her wish. 

There was no point in lingering in the dim WC. Bea knew she’d find Charity in the kitchen, calico apron tied over her church dress. She was pulling something from the oven, pork chops with apples and hominy, from the looks of it. Unbidden, Bea gathered up some clean napkins and a handful of silverware. In the beginning, she’d offered to help with the cooking, but that had ended with Charity realized Bea could barely fry and egg without leaving half of it charred to the pan. Carving meat and turning aspics were simply beyond Bea’s capabilities.

It took Charity a surprisingly long while to notice that Bea had come in, but when she did notice, she smiled. “You look very nice, dear”

Bea avoided eye contact. “Thanks.”

“That dress suits you. I’m sure Marcus will notice and appreciate it.”

Bea suddenly let out a loud, explosive burst of laughter, then instantly regretted it. “Oh, Marcus, ah.” She had to say something to Charity’s confused face, and suddenly found herself staring at the forks. “Marcus, ah, Marcus doesn’t really tend to notice these things. I’m pretty certain he doesn’t know the difference between a skirt and a dress.”

Charity’s face scrunched with yet more confusion. “Well, of course he doesn’t. It’s the effort they notice.” Her voice sounded tender. Hurt, almost.

“Well, yes. Of course.” Bea would’ve said anything to shut them both up, then, so she waddled into the dining room and made a great show of arranging the napkins. Nothing fancy; she didn’t know how to do those fancy folds like you saw in hotels. Just neat little triangles. Charity didn’t know anything, she assured herself. At best, she was assuming that all men were exactly like Fred. Marcus knew nothing about women’s clothing and knew what Bea looked like when she was sleep-deprived and splattered with gore. And he knew Bea never primped herself up because he thought she should. The very idea left a bad taste in her mouth. It made her feels like a paper doll or a dog, like something with no desire beyond a master’s approval.

“Are you only setting the table for five?” Charity had appeared at the threshold. “It needs to be six. Virgil’s coming, too.”

“He is? Yeah, sure, I can do that.” Bea shouldn’t have been surprised. The Conaghers were Virgil’s only surviving family as far as anybody knew. There would’ve have been much point in his going all the way to Montana so he could be by himself. Bea went back to thinking about dolls and dogs.

Did Charity really think that her relationship with Marcus was like that? She probably did. It fit with the narrative. Bea and Marcus probably didn’t _fuck_ in Charity’s mind; Bea had probably _given herself up to him._ It was only right that Bea should get pregnant: it was the _natural consequence of her actions._ It was Bea’s fault, and Marcus’s involvement was tangential, when it was mentioned at all. Everyone said that: Fred, Helen, the REDs as they passed rumors between themselves and snickered. So little mention of a father that Bea had started to wonder if they thought she was carrying the messiah.

Utter bullshit, of course. Marcus should’ve known better that night. He’d known Bea was drunk off her ass; he’d know she was fertile. So the wine had made her cocky, given her some bad ideas, but he should’ve stopped things. That was how it went with the person you trusted, though she supposed he hadn’t needed to trust her the way she’d needed to trust him. Things must’ve seemed a lot simpler to the one who couldn’t get knocked up. No blame, no swollen feet or getting taken off the team and hidden away for nine months. The unfairness made Bea want to scream.

Then there was the sound of the front door opening and low voices and the stamping of feet.“Charity, love, we done made it back.” Fred’s voice made Bea’s stomach turn. Suddenly, the prospect of seeing Marcus seemed terrifying. No, she wasn’t scared of him, she decided, she simply didn’t want his eyes on her, taking stock of everything that had changed.

“Bea, the men are here!”

Great. Now Bea couldn’t pretend that she hadn’t heard. She took a breath and went into the front hall with a smile forced onto her face. There they were, Marcus, Virgil, and Fred, with rumpled clothes and greasy faces from the long hours on the road. They’d just taken their hats off; Bea could tell from the way their hair was flattened. Dell was gathered up in Fred’s arms as if he’d come running the moment he heard the door open. His arms were around as much of Fred’s thick torso as he could reach, and he’s pressed his face into his father’s chest. Fred leaned forward, shifted the boy out of the way, and gave Charity a kiss on the cheek. No embrace. Only his lips touched her. He seemed afraid that he would get some of his dirt on her.

Bea thought she’d come in silently, but the men must have heard. Or maybe she’d cast a shadow, because all three of the men suddenly turned towards her. Virgil didn’t even make eye contact; his eyes were glued to her belly. Fred gave the most unnatural smile she’d ever seen. “Hey, Bea.”

“Hey.” Her voice was small and it took all her self-control not to stare at her feet. Marcus caught her eye just then, and smiled, close-slipped and stiff. It was the kind of smile that meant to communicate that he was pointedly not ignoring her. But somehow, this hardly seemed better than being ignored. That smile gave her all of the awkwardness and none of the affection. Why didn’t he come forward, hug her or kiss her? That that chaste nuptial kisses were their normal greeting, but it wasn’t like they could go for the usual insults an slaps on the ass. Not in front of Dell.

“All right, gentlemen.” Charity extracted Dell from Fred. “You go wash up and dinner’ll be on the table.”

Bea watched the men gather around the washbasin, splashing a little water on their faces and tidying their hair. The old ritual that signified their return to civilians and civilization. These sort of her returns were supposed to find Bea washing her face alongside her teammates, not carrying a plate of pork to the table.

Grace had to come before dinner and everyone had to get out of their chairs and onto their knees to pray. Bea hadn’t expected Fred to lead, or to address the “Almighty Father.” On base, Fred had always scoffed at religion, so where had this prayer come from? He must’ve been doing it for Charity’s sake. Or Dell’s, to give the boy some sense of divine comfort, to reassure him that the universe cared? Or maybe Fred just did it because that’s what a southern man was meant to do. Civilization was like that. It forced its way onto you so quietly and powerfully that you barely noticed before you obeyed.

They said “Amen” together, and got into their chairs. Napkins went into laps, and platters of food were passed to the right. Chops and hominy and creamed spinach. Each of the men praised Charity’s cooking in turn. She said it was nothing and asked them about work.

“Steady,” said Fred. “Very secure.” Vague words came out of his mouth as bites of food went in. “Stock’s doing well, and with any luck, I’ll be bringing back a Smissmas bonus.”

Charity seemed to accept that without another word. She turned to Dell. “Tell your father about school.” Dell began to rattle of details about multiplication tables and studying the War of Northern Aggression.

“So, how’ve you been doing, Bea?” Fred got the words in while Dell paused for breath.

Her face burned. “I’ve been doing well.” Maybe it was the formal dinner setting, but the situation seemed to demand that she recognize the difference between _good_ and _well_. “Thanks again for letting me stay here.”

Virgil made a growling noise at the back of his throat that made Bea think he was going to hack up a wad of phlegm. Rude as could be, but nobody would say anything. Nobody ever said anything to Virgil.

“You look right domesticated, girl,” Virgil growled. He stuffed a chunk of meat in his mouth and chewed on it with a vigor that defied its tenderness. “Barefoot in the kitchen and about to pop. I don’t like it.”

“Sorry?” Virgil’s rudeness was making Bea bolder. “Not like I like it either.”

Virgil grunted. Charity pursed her lips. Silence resumed, and Bea found herself hoping that it was only her presence that was putting everyone on edge. Surely the Conaghers didn’t pass every family dinner like this.

Dessert was a raspberry chiffon cake and the accompanying coffee was good and strong. Fred said there was scotch in the cupboard if anyone wanted an after-dinner drink. Virgil said he’d taken one, and prepared the glasses while Bea and Charity started the dishes. It seemed to go without saying that the second glass was for Fred.

The plates and coffee mugs were easy to clean, but a layer of charred drippings were crusted to the bottom of the broiling pain. Charity muttered at the pan, then put on the great elbow-length rubber gloves and reached for the steel wool. Bea hung back, ready to dry what Charity washed.

“Oh, you don’t have to stand there,” Charity said. “It’s just this one pan. I can dry it.”

“Thanks.” Bea wiped her hands on a towel and headed for the parlor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a bit early because I’m worn out from work and going to bed soon. 
> 
> Chapter 3: Bea finally gets a chance to talk to her teammates and start a fire. Sure, it’s a controlled fire in the fireplace, but let’s not linger on the technicalities.

The men had settled into armchairs, ankles crossed at the knees, sipping at their scotch and laughing at something Fred had just said. Only the lamps were lit, and Bea noticed a chill as soon as she entered. The air smelled like the outside.

“Is a window open?” Bea crossed her arms and considered going upstairs for a cardigan.

“I just closed it a minute ago,” said Fred. “Were you the one who left it open?” Charity and Bea used the parlor so seldom that the window could’ve been standing open for days on end without one of them noticing.

“No,” said Bea, though in all probability, she had been the one who opened the window and then forgot about it. She crossed her arms a little tighter, feeling the goosebumps prickle across her skin. The Conagher’s house had a gas furnace, but it wasn’t very strong and would take a while to kick in. Nobody needed a powerful furnace in such a mild place as Texas. “You know what? How about a fire?”

The fireplace was made of clean, white stone, so meticulous that it looked like it had never been used. Bea had a sudden urge to make the fire wild and out-of-control just so she could defile it. “If I make I mess, I’ll just clean it up. A chilly night like this is just begging for a good fire.”

“Since when do you ask permission?” Said Virgil.

Bea opened her mouth to reply, but Fred got there first. “There isn’t any wood.”

“Wh-wait,” she said. “Yes, there is. There is now. I just re-stocked it the other day.”

Fred raised his eyebrows and frowned. “You got firewood? You weren’t chopping it yourself, were you?” More stares at her belly. The way they worried, it was almost as if nobody had ever given birth under remotely trying circumstances before. It made Bea want to punch somebody, just so’d they’d complain that she was over-exerting herself. But she restrained herself and gritted her teeth. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

Fred hadn’t even been looking at her tits, but he blushed at the mere suggestion.

“How else would I have gotten it?” said Bea. “Besides, you’ve got too many damn trees on this property. Did you a favor.”

Fred blinked and his face twitched a little, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether or not believe her.

“Yes, Hardhat, I’m kidding. Jesus, what’s with the face?” Bea rolled her eyes. She couldn’t help it. “I bought it from some negro with a truck. Already chopped into small logs.” When the man had appeared on the doorstep with his wares, Bea hadn’t been able to resist buying a load.

“Still,” said Fred. “I’m not sure you should be carrying small logs.”

“I’ll carry the wood for her,” Marcus said suddenly. Fred and Bea both turned to look at him.

“Yes. Good. That’s fine.” Fred waved a hand and downed some more scotch as if he, and not Marcus, was the leader of the team.

Marcus stood and silently allowed Bea to lead him to the back of the house, where they logs had been stacked in a small and unassuming pile.

“Well, there is it.” Bea gestured toward the wood, and felt rather pathetic. She forced herself to look over her shoulder and up at Marcus. His face was closed and his lips were pursed. He opened his mouth, closed in again, and looked back towards the house. Then he took a step forward. Bea assumed that he had heading for the wood, but he swept her up in his arms. Or maybe it was an impulsive gestures, because he touched her, and then seemed to bounce back, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he was committed to the hug. But Bea hugged him back almost instinctively, and Marcus seemed to relax. A second of two trickled by, and then he lifted on enormous hand to stroke her hair.

“Oh, god,” he said softly. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Bea felt herself stiffen. Missing felt too ordinary and inadequate. They missed each other during every furlough and every contract mission, but this last separation was nothing like the others. It demanded something else. Bea wasn’t sure what she wanted Marcus to do, but she wanted him to do something. Acknowledge something. Make something right again.

“I’ve missed you too,” she said. That was what she was expected to say. Marcus’s torso felt so incredibly solid, dense as a brick wall. Bea had seen him and touched him thousands of times, but she never quite stopped marveling at his size. He always seemed too vast and powerful to be hers. She hadn’t been admiring him for two seconds when she started to ache again. The hug was perfectly nice, but she needed Marcus kneeling before her, naked among the rumpled sheet, getting ready to eat her out. Aggressively. She needed biting and fingernails scraping at the insides of her thighs.She’d grab a handful of his hair and urge him on, and when he was done, she’d pull him on top of her and refuse to let him go until she’d been throughly jackhammered. Damnit. It shouldn’t be possible to be angry with someone, lusting after them, and missing them all at once. This was throughly unfair.

“You think this is enough?”

Bea blinked. Marcus had a load of wood gathered up under one arm. She hadn’t even noticed he’d released her. “I’m, I’m.” Her brain refused form sentences. “I’m not sure if there can ever be enough. But that’s probably as much as Fred will allow.” Dragging her eyes away from the veins in Marcus’s arms, she fished through her pockets to distract herself. The familiar zippo was not there.

“I left my lighter upstairs,” she said. “I’m going to get it. And some tinder.”

Marcus nodded. “Wait? You brought your tinder?”

Bea was headed for the back door, but she paused. “Not my usual stuff.” Her collection of oily rags and cattail fluff had been forgotten during her hurried departure. “I’ve had to start saving my bank statements.” She held the door open for him.

“You want me to go ahead and stack these in the fireplace?”

Bea suddenly imagined Marcus trying to arrange the logs, face concentrated as if he were playing jenga. In spite of herself, she smiled a little. “Of course not. I know I won’t be satisfied with it and I’ll just end up undoing what you did.” Marcus just shrugged, throughly unable to argue with this.

Climbing the stairs again was difficult and unpleasant, but when Bea got ahold of her lighter, she decided she didn’t care. The zippo was smooth and perfectly cool in her hand. The flint struck with a satisfying crack and the tiny flame made a cheerful sphere of light in the otherwise dark bedroom. Bea reveled in the warm on her face and breathed in that familiar butane smell. It must’ve been weeks since she last touched her lighter. Charity didn’t want her playing with it. She was probably worried about accidents, but as Bea stared into the fire, she had the ferocious desire to pour a puddle of gasoline on the parlor floor. Throwing other people’s lives into chaos would make her feel like she was in control of her own.

No, no, the gasoline would have to wait. Probably until after the baby was born; if she was going to be on the run from law enforcement, she needed to be able to actually run. Besides, her friends were waiting for her, expecting a different kind of fire. In the parlor, Fred was pouring what was probably his third or fourth scotch, but Virgil’s heterochromatic eyes were still bright and clear. Marcus had faithfully placed the wood beside the fireplace.

“Where’s Charity?” With some effort, Bea knelt in front of the fireplace and started to arrange the logs into a teepee formation. She stuffed a few crumpled-up bank statements into the middle of the structure.

“Putting Dell to bed,” said Virgil. Fred seemed not to have heard the question.

“Right.” Bea struck her lighter, and held it to the tinder. Within a second, the fire was gobbling up the paper, greedy and eager, and the wood was crackling less than a minute later. The Texas sun had scorched those logs until they were as dry as matchsticks. The smoke had a coarse, deep smell. Bea inhaled. If she closed her eyes, she could believe she was at Tuefort. At least, she could believe it until the baby started moving. She used a hand to quiet it.

“So what’s been happening back at the base? What’ve I missed?” She turned to look at the men but didn’t get up. She needed to stay near the fire for a little longer.

“Haven’t you been getting my letters?” Marcus frowned. Something about that concerned expression was maddening. How dare he worry that she wasn’t getting his letters if those letters didn’t actually tell her anything?

“Katsu’s letters say more than yours do,” she found herself saying. There was more venom in the words than she’d anticipated. “All yours read like you’re writing to your grandmother.”

Marcus opened his mouth very briefly, then closed it, and scowled.

Virgil snickered. “So he didn’t tell you about how we all got bonuses after that quick victory at Sawmill? Or how Greg’s got the clap? Or about Seth?” Before Bea could get the question out, Virgil added, “He’s your replacement. A temp. Eight mercs makes it too easy for REDs, ‘specially when it’s month after month. But Seth’s tidy. Professional. Boss likes him, practically licks his boots.”

“Watch it,” Marcus growled and Bea found herself grateful that Virgil had mentioned the boot-licking. Marcus could rail against an insult, but not the rest of what Virgil had said. It would’ve made him look childish.

Virgil snorted. “I’m not the one who slapped his back and said he was damn good at rocket jumping.”

More grumbling from Marcus, so indistinct that Bea couldn’t catch any words. Not that she was really listening, because all she could think about was Marcus patting this other pyro – this Seth – on the back and giving him the compliments that rightfully belonged to her. She stared at the fire and clenched her fists until her fingernails were bruising her palms, but she kept silent. She might snap at Marcus, but she couldn’t blow up. Not here. Virgil would enjoy that too much.

“All this is news to me.” The words came out artificially light and cheerful. And then, just to show Virgil how much she _did_ _not_ care, she said, “Tell me more about Seth. What’s he like?”

“Virgil,” Marcus started, but Bea held up a hand to silence their boss.

“No, let him talk.” The last thing she needed right now was yet more protection. Though then again, Virgil seemed so utterly pleased that Bea wondered if there was any real point in making a show of strength. She got up and turned around so Virgil could see her face. Habit made her want to sit on the couch beside Marcus; that was what they did on base. But Marcus was sitting in an armchair, and the only available couch seat was beside Fred. Without any discernible choice, Bea setting down beside the engineer with as much grace as she could muster.

“Seth used to be a solider,” said Virgil. “Great War, of course. Got into pyrotechnics with those giant wheel-mounted flamethrowers. The kind they thought might matter in the trenches.” He chuckled. “You should hear him with Boss. Up half the night in the common room, telling war stories. Singing, after they’ve had a few.” His eyes flicked from Bea, then to Marcus and back, a grin growing on his face as he did so. “Ain’t anything like listening to ‘Over There’ at three in the morning. Fuck, I usta think you and Boss were rowdy. Guess I should counted my blessing, because Seth makes him louder than you ever could.”

Bea could’ve sworn that something in Marcus’s face was twitching, but she pretended not to notice. “Right,” she said. Shifted in her seat, trying and failing to get comfortable. Marcus was up all night with another Pyro. She took a deep breath and told herself that she shouldn’t be surprised at the war stories. Marcus had been on the Western Front, was wounded twice and sent back twice. Those had been his formative years, or so he’d called them, so it had to be natural that he wanted to recount them without somebody who understood, right? Never mind that he never sang any war songs — much less told any stories— around Bea. She’d asked him about the war plenty of times. Veterans always had interesting stories, whenever she could pry them out of the sullen mostly angry men.

Marcus had always brushed her aside. _It was awful,_ he’d say, avoiding her eye. _Bunch_ _of sick, stupid kids in a muddy hole. We almost had to shoot their asses to get them to go over the top._ Bea had been left with the impression that Marcus spent most the war wearing damp wool puttees and trying to keep his rations away from the rats. Nothing had ever suggested Marcus had any stories worth laughter and a merry pint during the small hours.

“Seth’s a good storyteller, then?” she said.

“Pretty good,” said Marcus.

“He’s awful.” Virgil slammed his glass on the side table and all but hollered it. “Can’t start at the beginning and make it to the end. Always goes off rambling about nothing. Can’t have him talk about one thing without getting breaks for four other things. No fucking point trying to follow him.”

Bea gritted her teeth. “If you can’t follow what he’s saying, maybe you’re just getting old.”

To her surprise, Virgil seemed to accept this without issue. “Damn right I’m old. And I want credit for every fucking year. Better off for it. Glad I can remember the world before it went all cushy.”

At that moment, the parlor door opened and Charity came in and looked about as if searching for a place to sit. Bea had no choice but to scoot to end of the couch, making space so Charity could sit in the middle, next to Fred. She was suddenly all the more curious about Seth because she knew nobody would discuss him in front of Charity. Not her world.

The rest of the evening trickled by so slowly that Bea could never remember the details. Eventually, it seemed everyone was stretching, yawning, and declaring their intentions to go to bed. Fred and Charity vanished into the big bedroom with the French doors. Virgil went into the second guest room, which everyone seemed to accept as somewhat his. Bea had gone into that room to change the seats once, and would have thought it was a child’s room had it not been for the pairs of grimy leather boots and brass spittoon. It must have gone without saying that Marcus would be sleeping with Bea, because he followed her into her room without being prompted.

“Not bad,” Marcus said, setting down his suitcase and looking around. Bea looked at the suitcase, which was stamped with _Marcus Blomquist_ and had a sudden urge to squirm. Marcus was right, though. The room was _not bad,_ but Bea didn’t want Marcus to associate her with _not bad._ She wanted the context of her room back on base, with its science-fiction novels, silk sheets, and dresser drawer stuffed full with sex toys.

This must have made her scowl, because Marcus peered into her face with concern. “You okay? You look...upset?”

“It’s just this room,” Bea found herself saying. “I hate it here.”

That must have surprised him, because there was a long an uncomfortable pause before Marcus spoke again. “Well, it is a temporary sort of place.”

“Yeah.”

More silence, which was only broken by the sound of Marcus unbuckling his suitcase. He fished out a toothbrush case and a box of toothpowder. Bea suddenly wished he’d produce some pajamas, even though that was completely absurd. She’d never seen Marcus wear pajamas; he probably didn’t own any. He always slept naked, or in his boxers, and Bea would sleep naked beside him. Hardly anything was as relaxing as bare skin against silk sheets.

Marcus was stripping by now, dropping his pants and unbuttoning his shirt as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He wadded up the clothes and tossed them in the general direction of the closet, just as they’d always done. Clothes went near the closet, and there was no bothering with a hamper, because neither of them could be bothered to actually put the dirty clothes inside one.

Bea’s thoughts didn’t linger on the lack of hampers, though,because Marcus pulled off his undershirt. He did it in one gesture, arms crossed, and he sighed a little once he’d gotten it over head. It was all but impossible not to watch his arms, all tendons, hair, and thick, tanned skin. His great muscles flexed and released. His abundant scars and the thin layer of fat shifted a little with the gesture. The fat had come with age, and the scars seemed to have come from everywhere. Childhood, his prizefighting days, the Great War, the Gravel Wars, and Bea. The scars she’d made might be the smallest, but they were also the most abundant. There was the B-shaped brand of her signet ring, now blurred and faded, and maybe a dozen cigarette scars. Marcus didn’t scar easily; his body seemed eager to erase trauma and move on. All the cigarette scars came from wounds that they re-opened time and time again. Some of the newer ones were pink and tender-looking. MOs of the older ones had faded to a pale brown that wasn’t too different from the rest of Marcus’s skin, though they lacked hair and pores.

God, she needed to burn Marcus. She’d breathe some color back into those complacent old scars. Smell the tobacco smoke and sizzling skin, and watch his face tense up with the pain. Maybe his muscles would heave, especially if he was tied up. Damn it, why _had_ she rushed away without any of her gear? There wasn’t any chance she could scrounge up some handcuffs or gags around the Conaghers’ house. Then again, Fred had have some rope and bandanas around somewhere. Maybe Bea could light a candle, slip up back, and rummage though the shed. She bit her lip. Was there any chance Charity and Fred would see her? Would Marcus try to talk her out of it?

Marcus stretched his back, grabbed his toothbrush, and headed for the WC. He seemed unconcerned that he might run into Charity while wearing nothing but his boxers. On some level, Bea understood it. At the base, nobody cared about nudity. The men all used an open shower, and after that, there didn’t seem to be any point in keeping bodily secrets.

Bea remembered the civilian rules, though, and changed into one of Charity’s nightgowns and padded down the hall. There was a line for the WC; Fred and Marcus were leaning against the wall. Virgil was nowhere; the prospect of taking turns and remembering to clean his hair from the sink would’ve driven him to stay in his room and brush his teeth with his own spit. Fred wore blue pajamas like a good civilian. On base, he sometimes slept in a stained union suit. Bea had seem him fix midnights snacks while stark naked, then sit his hairy, doughy ass on a kitchen chair so he could eat his sandwich. Had he started wearing the union suit when became a mercenary, or had he started wearing the pajamas when he married Charity?

When Charity came out of the WC. The makeup was gone, and her old-fashioned hair was almost to her hips. Golden-blond at the ends, a little darker near her scalp. If not for her loose, heavy breasts, she would’ve looked about twelve. Very young and very innocent. Bea thought Charity looked almost pretty until Charity paused. Her eyes flicked to Marcus ever so briefly. She didn’t say anything, but she pinched her lips and stared pointedly at the floor. She didn’t look up until she’d vanished through the French doors. In her mind, Marcus’s nakedness was probably like Fred’s “secure job” with “stock options.” It was something small and vague, but it covered a complex story into which she’d never pry.

The line meant that Marcus was in bed ten minutes earlier than Bea. He’d left the lamp on so Bea wouldn’t have to fumble through the darkness. He lay on his side, facing the center of the bed, and his eyes were closed. Not that the closed eyes meant he was asleep; he just tended to wait like that. The day’s work was done, so why bother to keep his eyes open? When Bea arrived, he would feel it. She was meant to tuck herself into his arms, to let him spoon her as they drifted off. They’d slept in that position for so long that Marcus had a hard time falling asleep any other way. Or so he’d say, once. Bea wondered if he’d lain awake during the first nights of her absence, though he had to have had readjusted by now. The very idea of readjustment angered her. She’d spent almost seven years getting close to Marcus, working her way into his comfort zone, bit by bit. If a few months had undone all of that, she was going to scream.

It wasn’t until she reached the side of the bed that she noticed Marcus had put all her extra pillows on the floor. Stooping to pick them up put uncomfortable pressure on her belly, but she made an effort not to groan. She placed the pillows on the bed instead of tossing them, but it caught Marcus’s attention anyway.

One eye cracked open. “What’re you doing?” At least there was no comment about the nightgown.

“I need them.” Bea tried to climb into bed, but the movement turned into a flop. She’d been putting the pillows under her belly and legs for weeks now, but getting them into place had never felt so awkward and clumsy. And as soon as she was done, she noticed she wasn’t touching Marcus. Suddenly the prospect of scooting back six inches seemed impossible. The pillows suddenly felt like Katsu’s support wedges. Keeping the bedridden patient in the correct position, but also trapping them.

Wait, no. Why should she go to all the effort of scooting back if Marcus could just scoot forward? He could move more easily, so let him do it. Bea relaxed and waited for Marcus to rock the mattress and drape one arm over her wait. Well, where her waist had been. Ten seconds passed. Then thirty. Marcus didn’t stir.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the story finally concludes...

Six inches was an interesting distance, at least for two people in a bed. Not pleasant, certainly, but interesting. As interesting as the aftermath of a brown recluse bite. Bea could feel Marcus’s body heat and hear him breathing. He’d just showered, so he smelled nicely of wet hair and Pear’s Ivory soap.

Damnit. Six inches could be used in deprivation play, she decided. Enough time like this could drive anyone to begging. It was only too easy to imagine the words creeping out of her. Please touch me. Her voice would be small and frail, a voiced that hoped Marcus would take pity on her. Bea cringed at the thought. She never begged. Not while she was playing, not anywhere, not for anything. It was one of the first things she established while setting boundaries. _No scratching at my scars and I don’t beg._ She’d gone twenty-five years without it, and that wasn’t going to change now.

“Fucking touch me already!” She hadn’t meant to be quite that loud. On the other side of the wall, a coil mattress creaked. Maybe after tonight, Virgil wouldn’t think that Seth was louder than Bea.

Silence. Bea looked over her shoulder, then blinked. She hadn’t seen Marcus look that dumbfounded since she first suggested fire play. Then he hastily wiggled forward and spooned her, arm looping around the big part of her belly. So quick. Almost too quick. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he was afraid of something.

Instinctively, she put a hand on his wrist. Her fingers barely reached halfway around, and Bea marveled at the size difference, even though she’d seen it a thousand times before. Her hands could barely stretch across his palms, and his boots always seemed more like a blunt weapon than something to wear. Even after a thousand times, she’d never get tired on looking at all the ways in which he dwarfed her. He could pick her up with one arm and snap her neck with a flick of his wrist. So much physical power that meant practically nothing when he was kneeling in front on her, eyes big and begging.

Bea was aching terribly by now. She needed Marcus on his knees, and soon.

“I...” Marcus’s voice pulled Bea out of her head. “You were lying over there and I didn’t do anything because I didn’t think you wanted me to touch you.”

That had to be the single most idiotic thing he’d ever said. Bea had never shied away from touch, sexual or otherwise. Hadn’t she often joked that if Marcus didn’t cuddle her enough, she’d go home with strangers to satisfy her hunger? And now Marcus thought she didn’t want to be spooned to sleep? Sure, his arm was on her, but the comfort Bea expected hadn’t come. Instead, anger bubbled in her gut, which did nothing to quell the ache.

“Don’t be stupid.” It came out as a growl. “Nobody except the gyno touches me, and the fucking speculum doesn’t count.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Marcus said. “And I’ve got you.”

What was wrong with him tonight? He was nothing but inane statements. There were tears in Bea’s eyes suddenly. Why were they there? Tears weren’t for the moments when she was all but shaking with rage. Sure, Marcus might be in the same bed, but I didn’t help anything. She was still pregnant, still trapped in the Conaghers’ house, and Marcus still didn’t think to tell her about anything she’d missed. And he’d replaced her. No wonder the embrace wasn’t helping.

“Yes. You are.” Bea took a long, shuddering breath and sank her fingernails into Marcus’s wrist. “But don’t you get it? You’re here and it _doesn’t matter.”_

“What? Bea, I...” He must have been at a total loss for words, because all he did was pull her closer. His torso against her back. So huge and warm. And she was so horny.

Enough of this! Anger and things not mattering were complex. She’d need time to get though them, but at least the horniness could be addressed immediately.

“Fuck it. You know what? We need to screw.” Saying it gave Bea a sudden burst of energy, and she rolled against Marcus, who moved back to make room for her. The next thing she knew, they were face-to-face, and she’d moved her fingers from his wrist to his shoulders. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. I’m super pissed at you, but we’re having sex _right now.”_

Marcus opened his mouth, blinked, and shut it, but the confusion quickly changed into a wide, dopey grin. Ah, fuck. It was already going to his head.

“Of course we can,” he said, as if she’d asked him about the matter. He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead and immediately reached for her breasts. Even through the nightgown, she could tell that she filled his hands completely. He gave her a little squeeze. Gentle, but she was so tender it hurt. Somehow, the pain felt amazing. Normally, Bea wanted nothing to do with pain, but if pain meant she was finally being touched, she couldn’t get enough of it. Her vagina was leaking already, too wet too quickly. Marcus had moved to her other breast by now, hefting it up and pressing his fingers in. With his other hand, he stroke the flat line of skin over her sternum.

“Yes. Good. More.” Bea’s voice came out high and breathy. She’d probably start blubbering if she wasn’t careful, so she leaned towards the crook of Marcus’s neck and sank her teeth in. Hard. Big deal if she bruised him; a collared shirt would cover it.

“Easy, easy.” Marcus took her by the jaw, guiding her away from the bite. “Wild little animal.”

“Sure am, pet.”

They were kissing then. Neither was sure who had initiated, but it was full of tongues and teeth’s and Marcus’s stubble rasping against Bea’s cheeks. One of his hands started to work at her nightgown, slithering down the long stretch of white flannel. Damn nightgown. What had possessed her to start sleeping in that thing? One night had been too much.

Bea caught Marcus’s lower lip between her teeth, pulled away from the kiss, and hitched up her hem.Before, she might have tried to do it slowly, to make a striptease out of it. Tonight, she was hasty. Pragmatic. She yanked the nightgown over her shoulders and cursed as she tried to get free of the arm holes. The removal of clothing was just one more step towards and orgasm, really. Finally, she got that shapeless flannel tent over her head, tossed it aside with as much force as she could muster, and lay back against the pillow, panting a little.

Marcus had pushed himself up to one elbow, she noticed, and his eyes moved up and down. From one end of her to the other and back again. Taking in the swollen tits and unruly pubic hair. Her gut was like a watermelon, covered in angry stretch marks. Though perhaps the stretch marks didn’t stand out that much. They almost blended in with all the scars.

Marcus exhaled, so soft she could barely hear it over her own breathing. “You look gorgeous.”

Bea laughed. “Shut up.” The laugh might’ve come automatically, she realized, but Marcus was probably being serious. His face always closed itself off when he lied. He’d compose himself, make too much effort to be calm. Now, he looked nothing like that. His face was open and vulnerable, eyes wide and lips parted a little. He wasn’t thinking hard enough to lie.

“You know I mean it.” Marcus put a hand to her face, pushed back the hair that the nightgown had tousled. “You’re glowing. It’s amazing.”

He was so completely sincere and so completely wrong that it almost made Bea uncomfortable. So she grumbled a little and scratched at his chest. The scratch must have seemed like encouragement, because Marcus returned his ministrations to her breasts. Ran one thumb over her nipples and then bent down to kiss and nibble them.

“I’m supposed to feel like this,” he said, looking up. “Gotta love the woman carrying my child. Nature’s way of saying you’re mine.” He was teasing, but the words stung anyway.

“Oh, fuck off.” Bea was tempted to actually punch him, but then the sheets would be covered in blood and she wouldn’t get an orgasm.

“Fuck you? If you insist.” Marcus looked far too smug for a man who had caused so much trouble. Maybe it was the availability of her tits. These past months had to have left him lonely and horny, too.

Bea tried to push the sting out her mind, and made an effort to tease. “You’re the worst.”

“Horrid. Just evil.” He planted a feather-light kiss on the end of her nose and hooked a finger under the waistband of those hideous maternity knickers. Bea lifted her hips so he could get them off. Normally, she’d sit up at this point. Spread her thighs and take Marcus by the hair, urging him forward as he serviced her. Now, she had too much belly in the way, so she rolled onto her back.

Immediately, she felt trapped. The baby was nothing but dead weight, pressing against her lungs and a stomach that was still full from dinner. She might’ve tried to move into another position, but Marcus was already on her. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, drew in close, and dipped his tongue between her labia. It was meant to be a delicate, teasing touch, but Bea was so wound-up and sensitive that she almost shuddered. Something was crawling under her skin, like she’d been pumped full of electricity or was about to sprout feathers. Uncomfortable but not unpleasant, so she dug her heels in and resolved to staying on her back. At least the service would get Marcus to shut up.

Marcus’s tongue was eager, greedy almost. He plunged in with long, wide strokes and little bites. Paused now and then to pay attention to the soft insides of her thighs. Bea felt pinches that came from either fingernails or teeth, though she couldn’t see much of anything over the great mound of her belly. Marcus had to feel like he was going to town on a disembodied vulva.

Bea was gasping by now, sweating a little, and trying not to moan. Fuck, he’d gotten her worked up so quickly. The quickness didn’t suit her, and besides, she liked to make Marcus really work. Work was good for him.

For a second, Marcus paused. He wasn’t getting up; Bea could feel his breath against her skin. Then he nuzzled his tongue into her folds and drew upwards, just barely brushing against her hood. Bea moaned; she couldn’t help it. What else could she do when every nerve in her body was firing? Marcus must’ve heard the moan, but it only seemed to make him redouble his efforts. His tongue was tracing her now, slow, steady circles around her clit. Letting the repetition wind her up.

Bea came with a wail. She hadn’t been expecting it, a forceful pulse that practically knocked the air from her lungs, and then slowly faded away. She was sweating properly now, and her muscles seemed to be both weak and crackling with energy. Had she been standing, she’d have collapsed in a heap. Then she noticed she was panting again, quick deep breaths that made her breasts and belly heave. Fuck. The dim lamplight wasn’t enough to hide that she’d been undone. Marcus would be able to see everything.

Sure enough, Marcus got to his knees, but his face was full of confusion. Bea had never come that quickly before. Well, at least he didn’t think his skills were to credit.

“What’re you staring at?” Bea snapped. The orgasm had passed by now, but she was going to need another. She was still aching, unsatisfied.

Marcus’s answer only came after a pause. “Still feeling good?”

A large part of Bea wanted to grab him by the sideburns and scream that she was just fine, and would everyone stop with the constant worrying? But she managed to take a deep breath and speak calmly. “Yeah, perfectly fine.” For distraction, she tugged as his boxers. “C’mon, now. Get these off. Fuck me properly.”

Obedient as ever, Marcus undid the button and slid the boxers down. Bea took a good look at his cock — not terribly long, but nice and thick — and started wondering about position again. Her belly meant that anything vigorous was out of the question. All she wanted to do was lie still and let Marcus give her a good, hard pounding.

Marcus’s hands had suddenly found their way to her hips and her pulled her on top of him, as if he wanted to be ridden. Bea considered it for half a second. It was feasible, but riding someone as big as Marcus took a good deal of athleticism, and she just didn’t have it in her.

“No,” she said. “Not going to happen.”

“Wha...what? No?”

Bea didn’t want to explain. Instead, she slid off and directed him to lie beside her, face to face. She wrapped his legs around his. They seldom fucked like this, but Marcus seemed happy enough. He took her ass in one massive hand and pulled her hips close. Lined up his cock and held her steady between thrusts. Good and enthusiastic. He’d only gotten started before Bea came again. It didn’t surprise her this time, but she didn’t bother to hold back. The second orgasm left her weaker than than the first, exhausted and finally satisfied and still throughly furious. The fury didn’t matter, though, because there was really nothing she could do but wait for Marcus to finish. It took a while, but he’d be forty in a couple years. He ejaculated, then seemed to relax into the mattress.

“Amazing,” he said softly. Then slowly, gently, he pulled out of her. A trickle of liquid ran down Bea’s legs, semen mixed with her own juices. It would congeal into a hard mess, but she was too tired to care. It had been a long time since sex had left her so spent, and she might’ve been asleep within a few seconds if it weren’t for Marcus.

“Do you want your underwear back?” Marcus crawled out of bed and retrieved his boxers.

“Not really, no.”

“That nightgown?”

_“Fuck no.”_

“Ah, Bea.” He was smiling as he buttoned the waistband.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just like the way you said it.” He was gathering the discarded pillows by now. Slipped them under her head and belly, just as she’d had them before, and then he vanished out the door. Bea barely had time to wonder where he’d gone before he came back with a washcloth. “Here. I’ll clean you up.”

Bea didn’t want someone else to clean her, but how could she clean herself if she couldn’t see the mess? She opened her legs, feeling like an infirmary patient all over again. The feeling only got stronger when Marcus pulled the sheets and comforter over her, sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed her back.

“This is wrong,” said Bea. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

“I know. But it’s just for tonight.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“‘Course you don’t, but I want to do it. Let me have this, will you? You know how it is after sex. Makes me responsible.”

There was a long pause, then Bea bit her lip and nodded.

“Do you want me to rub your feet? Looks like they might need it.”

A foot rub would mean rearranging the blankets, and she suddenly realized that she was almost comfortable. “No, keep doing this. It’s nice.” Her eyes were welling up again. Fucking hormones, trying to make her cry for no reason at all.

If Marcus noticed this, he didn’t let on. He just kept rubbing, slow and easy. “What’re you thinking about?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. Everything. Every day’s like a copy of yesterday here, and everything’s changing, too.”

Marcus sighed through his nose, then picked up one of her hands and kissed the knuckles. “I know it’s got to be rough. Way rougher than what I’ve got, and your being gone is plenty rough on me. I end up pausing all the time, you know. Little things make me do it. Moments in battle or things I see in town, and especially when they bring us a new prisoner. Gets me thinking, _Bea should be here for this._ It grates on me, after a while. That, and I’m not sleeping right.”

“You’re not?”

He shrugged. “It’s not that bad. Battle fatigue helps. After eight hours of fighting, there’s no way I can stay awake for too long. Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t think I have room for any new worries.” This was meant as a joke, but it felt truer than Bea cared to admit.

“Good. You worry about you. I’ll be fine.” A pause, and then he returned to rubbing her back. But think, you’re almost done with,” he gestured at the room, “all this. Almost there. You’ve almost made it.”

“Not almost. I’ve got another month and a half.”

“We’ve done missions longer than that. We’ve done mission longer than that while living in a leaky shack and eating expired canned shit.”

“Oh, god.” Bea had almost forgotten that disastrous job at Canalzone.The roof had had so many holes that sunlight made up for the lack of electricity. She’d used to the team’s mattresses for a bonfire in the middle of the first night; they’d been teeming with bedbugs. “I’d still rather be there than here.” Then she remembered the water that had struggled out of the pumped. Flecks of rust had floated on its surface, and it stank so badly that the mercs held their noses while they drank. “Actually, no, I take that back. I’ll stay here.”

“Exactly. We made it then, and you’re going to make it now. A month and a half is going to be nothing for you. And then they’ll knock you out with ether, and the baby will be gone.” Modern birthing and its medicine seemed to reassure Marcus.

Bea suspected that the old-fashioned way scared him. The screaming from pain, the midwife, the giving birth in the bathtub so the blood didn’t get everywhere. Not that they hadn’t seen things gorier than childbirth— it was the indignity of the thing. “Yes, gone. Finally.”

They had never hesitated in the decision to give the baby away. Keeping it would’ve meant marriage and settling down in a house like this one. Bea at home all day, nursing and making pork chops, Marcus only home for furloughs. Enough of that life would make him as distant from Bea was Fred was from Charity. It would probably drive him spouting euphemisms about stock options.

“Mmmm-hmmm,” said Marcus. “And then you’ll be back on base, and we can—”

“Go back.”

“Move on.”

There was another stretch of silence. Marcus was right, of course. Things weren’t going back to the way they had been.

“You’ll get rid of Seth before I come back?” said Bea. “No, I’m telling you this. You’re getting rid of him.”

“Of course I’ll let him go. He’s a temp.”

“Good. Just making sure you don’t get too...” She found herself searching for a word. “Attached.”

“Attached? Fuck no.” Marcus stopped rubbing for a couple seconds, then resumed. “Seth knows how to be a pyro, but he’s crazy. It wears me out.”

“Wait, crazy?” Bea pushed herself to one elbow.

“Shell-shocked kind of crazy. You heard Virgil, Seth can’t keep his stories straight. He starts slipping into the past, like a lot of shell-shocked men do. The war ruined his memory. That was about the first thing he said when he arrived. That I was going to have to tell him things over and over.”

Bea paused. “Was that true? About his memory?”

“Yeah. I don’t know why the Administrator thought he was fit for fighting. It’s sad really. He knows I’m Boss and Katsu is Doc, but everyone else seems to run together. The classes are obvious, he said, but half the time, he’s switching up names. Or details. He’ll think Spy is from Texas and Fred’s Spanish.”

“Fuck. That actually is really sad.”

“Yeah.” Marcus seemed to be staring into the middle distance by now. “Everything new won’t stay in his head, and everything old won’t leave. He’ll fixate on it. Laugh like a maniac when he remembers the worst parts. I think it’s because he doesn’t know what else to do. Booze calms him down. Sometimes. It’s funny, though. Even when he’s rambling, you never doubt that he was there, in the worst of it all. He’ll bring up little details, shit nobody ever bothered to write down. One night, he went on about how the Germans lined their trenches with planks and the French lined ‘em with sticks.”

“They did?”

“Yeah.” There was a wry smile in his voice. “Think that was the thing about the sticks that first got me talking. Don’t know how it started. He said he was gassed in a French trench and all he could see was the sticks in the walls. I said I’d seen trenches like that, that I’d been...” His voice trailed ofu f and he shook his head. “Then he laughed at me. Said there wasn’t any point in talking about where I was and what I did, because he wasn’t going to remember any of that, either. But it made me want to talk more. Knowing he wasn’t going to save my stories up and use them to, well, draw conclusions about me.”

What sort of conclusions? About his leadership skills? Or his character? Bea yearned to ask but knew now was not the time.

“Point is,” said Marcus. “That’s Seth. He’s not you, he couldn’t even replace you. Once you’re back, I’m sending him home.He belongs there anyway; his daughter will take care of him. Virgil’s just goading you. Don’t make him happy.”

“I don’t think there’s anybody who Virgil can’t goad at least a little.”

“True.”

“I won’t make him happy, though. Not if I can help it.” Bea looked up at Marcus. “You’ve been sitting there for an awfully long time, you know. Lie down. Spoon me.” It didn’t feel pathetic or aggressive this time. Just ordinary. She could have been any woman with her lover.

Marcus crawled under the blankets and gathered her up. The comfort came immediately, this time, and Bea leaned into him as he sighed. A gentle rise and fall of his chest. She put a hand over his.

“You think you’ll sleep better or worse tonight?” she asked suddenly. “You’ve got me back, but you’re not used to me anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Marcus. “If I not used to you now, I’ll get used to you again in May.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Bea found his words to be strangely encouraging but wasn’t sure if she could articulate it. Tonight might be awkward, but Marcus would get used to spooning her again. They would move on.

Bea closed her eyes. One and a half months more, the birth, some time to recover, and then the Administrator would send her to back to Teufort. It would feel strange, filling up her flamethrower and putting on her mask. The REDs would have another round of gossip at her expense. The reunion with the BLUs would probably be as awkward as dinner had been, but she’d settle back into their ways. The drinking, the nudity, the crassness. Nothing was coming that she couldn’t handle, and that thought made her feel considerably less helpless. If she could just keep going, one day after the next, then everything would be all right.

 

 **The** **End**


End file.
